


Trust

by twistedchick



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:34:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike will take Buffy home; he promised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

Spike glared up the wall at the afternoon light, retreating from the alley where he sat. It could go at its own pace today; for once, he wasn't in a hurry for night to come. When it did, he'd be as much a fool for love as he'd always been.

He took a drag on a cigarette and let the smoke drift out his nostrils to rise in pale curls against the dingy concrete.

He'd always let love blind him to the changes time made. Didn't matter if people were dead or not. Didn't even matter if they were mortals, demons or whatever. Nobody stayed the same.

Just because his father, the vicar, had preached "Love your enemies" centuries ago didn't mean he had to do it. And, for most of his existence, he'd have flipped the old man the bird and kept on going to hell in his own way, and as inventively as possible. Nothing ordinary or boring for William the Bloody.

Amazing how much difference a little bit of silicon and metal in the brain could make in a bloke's proclivities. He hadn't tasted a bite of sweet meat in -- what, it had to be years by now. Instead, he'd had to scrounge for what he could get from hospitals and clinics, when he wasn't swiping supplies from the Scooby gang. Now, there was a laugh riot -- him hanging with the Slayer's groupies. Who would have thought it? Back when he'd arrived with Dru, his only thought was to put all those healthy young bodies on the menu, get Dru well again.

Things never work out the way you expect. Never. Dru was gone, he was here, but humans were off the menu. Even the Slayer was changed from the leather-armored stake-wielding terror he'd battled and feared.

There he was again, brooding over the Slayer as if she were his chick.

He snorted at the thought of her in feathers. Right. If she wore an entire outfit of feathers now, they wouldn't make her his bird, and she'd look as sad and out-of-place as in anything else. In the old days, she might have worn feathers spun of silver, or steel, that would burn him or cut him, just because she could. So what? It was only pain. What did that have to do with anything?

A lot, when it had to do with Buffy.

He couldn't see her face now without feeling all cut up inside, as if whatever she felt under the calm mask could lance him open without fail. It was as if she were drowning in all the pain she'd ever dealt to others --and it was splashing out, flowing, rising up to drown him, too.

It wasn't fair. Now that he couldn't do a damned thing, couldn't even gloat, the Slayer was enduring the kind of pain he'd had to face ever since the Initiative had sliced his brain open. No more Happy Meals on Legs for him; no more peace in the everlasting or on earth for her.

Not even the little peace after the small death. He could still be jealous of Angel, even after this long, for having been able to give her that.

She'd never take it from him.

Buffy had never trusted him with herself, only with the people she cared most about. But that mattered. And he did care about Joyce. She had been a friend, someone who'd listen to him talk and try to understand. No one else in a century had made him hot chocolate, with or without the little marshmallows floating on top that he could poke with a finger and play with. And then there was the kid; that skinny big-eyed sister with Buffy's bravado and almost as much wildness lurking under that sweet innocence as he himself had on a good bad day. He hadn't realized how much he'd wanted a kid sister until he, somehow, had one.

What did that make him, the Slayer's brother? Acquaintance? Hah. It was more than that, though it wasn't lover, even when she'd kissed him that time in his mausoleum. He didn't even want to think about the mad day when they'd been engaged, her soft weight on his lap, her breath in his mouth; that was just one of Willow's weird spells gone wrong. He couldn't even remember how the Slayer tasted, because of that stupid spell. Bloody hell. Even the librarian had been hit by that one, blind as a bat. Who knows what might have happened if it hadn't been reversed? He might have had to be polite to Xander forever.

Spike dropped the stub and ground it under his boot heel. He lit another cigarette. Ahh, the caress of that warm smoke in his lungs. It almost felt as if he were alive again.

He had to respect Giles; man had a hell of a berserker inside him, hiding under all that tweed. Ought to let it out more often, not just when he'd been eating sweets. And eating Joyce, on the hood of that police car. Something he'd have loved to do, if he'd thought she'd go for it. He'd never been one for forcing his pleasure, not like that, and he liked Joyce. When he'd seen them, that night that the town went chocoholic, sliding together on the slippery painted cop-car hood, his jaw had dropped and he'd leaned on the wall in the shadows, watching the berserker with his sweet lady, listening to her moans and whimpers. He wondered if she tasted like the chocolate they'd been eating, or sweeter, just on her own.

He didn't realize until later that he'd listened because she sounded so much like Buffy.

Buffy smelled warm, as if the gold in her hair carried the scents of daytime to tease him, to remind him of a time when he could walk in sunlight and write love poetry. Sometimes she'd smell like sunlit flowers and fresh bread, other times like coffee with honey, but he'd bet his life she tasted even sweeter than that.

Shit. There he was, betting his life again. Well, nothing much else to do at the moment. Sunnyhell was still too sunny for him to go anywhere else above ground. Two more cigarettes left, so he'd have to make them last.

What options did he have? He couldn't really leave this odd little life he'd found, protecting the Slayer's kid sister, watching Buffy walk through the town as if it were a stage set from the wrong play. If he had his freedom, from them and from the bit of cold metal in his head, he could go to L.A. and have some fun, but only until Angel found him, and then it would be goodnight, sweet prince.

The big poof wasn't any fun since he got his soul back. When his sire had been Angelus, they'd had some right good times, with Darla and Dru, and with each other when the girls were off doing girl things. He smiled, remembering a night when the girls had gone out on the town without them, to see some play by Gilbert and Sullivan and snack on the audience during the intermission. He'd teased Angelus for hours, licking him down, not letting him come, then pushed the big lunk's legs over and nailed him good, sliding in sweet as anything and riding for a long, long time. The older you got, the longer it took to come. When he'd finished, Angelus was still moaning for more, so he'd pulled out, climbed up, and slid down on the joystick to ride an hour or so longer.

But that was just shagging. Nobody was worshipping the dark goddess when he and Angelus went at it. It was just bodies, doing what bodies do well, giving pleasure and pain and pleasure again. No love lost there. No love at all, not between him and Angelus, or Angel, even if they'd blown the top off Krakatoa once a decade or so. Well, can't have everything. He didn't trust Angel and that crew not to give him splinters just as a greeting. That Cordelia was a nasty piece all by herself.

Not that he could expect a lot of hospitality from the Scooby gang either, these days. Seemed like most of them had forgotten the time when he'd fought by their side, only a few months ago. That Willow was getting above her witchy self these days. Hmph. Thought she was the bloody Queen of the May with her spells and her potions. She'd get hers, he'd see to it, even if the pain killed him. It was just pain. He was used to that.

Why did it all come back to the Slayer? All his life, he'd been ducking or dodging the boot and the splinter from girls not old enough to have a figure. He'd killed two of them and gloried in their deaths, drunk on their wasted strength.

It was all that trust: Joyce, the Little Bit, the rest of them on the run from the stupid knights in their tin cans. He'd been their berserker, regardless of cost, after Giles was hurt. It mattered. He'd told Buffy that, that last night before she died.

All that faith she had, that he wouldn't turn the Little Bit over to the Big Bad. Of course he wouldn't. He'd made a promise to a lady, he had, and he'd never break a promise to Joyce in his lifetime, however long it was. He'd renewed that vow to Buffy, on the stairs.

And broken it, high above the city, his fall from heaven the only thing that could have torn his eyes from Dawn's horrified distress.

He'd failed.

They'd paid.

That was the hell of it, and he knew it well. Oh, hell was familiar now.

You never do fall for the people who are good for you, you idiot, he told himself. But who could be good for a vampire? He'd struck out with another vampire, and then with the Slayer (as if that were a surprise), and then had turned around and fallen like a brick for someone who was neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. A Key? What the fuck was that? She couldn't have had just the one use, the one ability, no matter what anyone thought -- or she would have vanished when the gateway to Chaos was sealed. No. She was something else, more powerful, stronger. Even in his darkness he could see how brightly the fire burned in her.

No, that cup he wouldn't drink from, even if it would have saved his soul. For once, he'd learned his lesson, to love from afar. It had been nearly two centuries since he'd been a classics scholar, but the myths were graven in his bones. Loving a deity was deadly, especially one whose power was so finely wrapped and secluded. Fire scorched, burned, killed.

He'd fight for her, kill for her, and know as long as he lived to do it that it was the only way he could worship her. And wasn't that what he'd been looking for, all those years when all he thought he wanted was a good shag?

Spike lit the last cigarette and watched the smoke curl around his fingers and slither toward the light. It was almost time.

Buffy used to carry her own light with her, in her energy and her bright spirit. Now she wore a different light, a clearer one, even if he was the only one who could see it. Stupid Scoobys. Blind as bats, every one of them except Giles.

Giles would understand.

"How are you today, sweet?" he asked as he saw her coming down the street. "Things going any better?"

Buffy nodded. Shook her head. Shrugged. "I'm managing."

"You're homesick, chick." He could feel his voice guttering in his throat. Even when he'd shown her the whore vamps feeding off her Initiative pretty boy, she hadn't looked so desperate and worn.

He'd long ago give up thinking of how futile it was, this feeling he had.

Another shrug. "That's not supposed to happen, is it? I'm supposed to be home."

"What's eating you today? The money?" He fell into step beside her as they wandered through the alley, toward a quieter area. "I could steal some for you, you know. They'd never convict me." He waved a pale hand. "No identifiable fingerprints. No live guards to identify me."

She showed him the faintest smile. "No, they'd just put you out in a nice sunny courtroom."

The girl had to be feeling better, getting a bit of her spunk back.

"As if they could catch me," he said, angling for a smile. "Sure you don't want a tidy little bank job?"

The corners of her lips moved, in an approximation of humor. "No, the money's sorted out. Giles did something with the bank, I don't understand what, but it will keep us from losing the house."

The Key an adult. She could already slay dragons with those big eyes, never mind that she wasn't trained as a fighter. But he could take care of that, if they'd let him, and maybe even if they wouldn't.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

She nodded. "It'll keep Dawn safe, give her a home. That's good." She said it as if she had to remind herself of what the words meant.

"Then that's a bit of all right." He waved a hand away from Sunnydale, toward the peaceful, wooded hills above the town, and she nodded. They walked on. She told him a silly story about Xander and Anya, and he replied with gentled sarcasm.

The last tips of the leaves still moved in light, far above his head, as they walked and talked of nothing that mattered. When the direct sunlight was gone, the burning disk below the hills on the far side of town, he felt the breeze touch the back of his neck: time.

"You still want to go home, don't you?"

She shrugged, nodded. "But I can't."

"You're wrong, sweet." They were alone, out past the edge of the city where the cemetery trailed into the woods. "You can." His hands were on her throat, gently, just holding her, as he gazed into her eyes for a sign.

She held perfectly still, warm and breathing under his hands. Trusting him.

So he let it win, all that he'd been feeling for so long, and took that kiss he'd wanted ever since the first time he'd seen her watching him without fear. He tasted her, long and deep, learning her response, something he would know and remember until he was dust, that first real lover's kiss of trust and acceptance.

He'd been right. Sweeter than wildflower honey or chocolate. Sweeter than anything he'd ever known.

His hands only had to move a little, her neck was so small.

When he laid her down on the ground, in the last light from the street lamp he could see her lips move. "Thank you." It was the barest whisper, the last bit of air.

He had to hold her hand, to feel her skin cool, to realize he'd done it -- because his head wasn't splitting. Maybe all the hard pounding he'd had, one way or another, had finally disabled the infernal chip.

It didn't matter. He'd have done it anyway. He'd have taken the pain and never regretted it, not for a second.

Isn't that what you do for the people you love?

He closed her eyes as she slowly cooled in the damp evening air. A faint smile lurked in the curve of her lips. He kissed her again and stood. Time for him to wander back to town, so he could be in his cozy mausoleum when they came looking for her, so he could join in the hunt and look as sad and regretful when she was found as anyone else.

Wait a minute. He didn't have a chip any more. Maybe he could cruise past the Bronze, see if some lunk needed to lose a pint or two, before he went home.

The thought of fresh, hot drink sent him crashing to his knees.

Pain? He'd never known pain like this. It shattered him, splintered him into a million bleeding shards. He whimpered, unable to stop himself, not even caring how he sounded.

Had the damned chip fragmented? He shook his head, testing. No, the pain came from everywhere. This wasn't just a headache any more -- it was fire without heat Knives without steel, carving him, hollowing him.

He scrambled to his feet, but nearly blacked out. Why was he so dizzy? He grabbed a tree so hard its bark crumbled under his fingers.

Why did the thought of draining some muscle-bound frat brat make him queasy, when it should make him drool?

Not lighter, but a light...inside him.

Not only hollow, but hallowed.

No.

Oh. Fuck. It. All.

Bloody Powers That Be. Sick sense of humor they had to have. Fucking sick.

No way he could have known, or guessed. It had taken a gypsy curse to do Angelus, to give him a soul and turn him soft. Not a gypsy in sight -- he'd have sworn there wasn't one within a hundred miles or more -- but the Powers That Be were intervening instead, imposing a soul on him when he hadn't asked for it.

Shit. Do a good deed, and they decide you deserve another chance at being Pinnochio. Get rid of the damned neutering chip, and replace it with an undamned soul. He'd lost his edge, just the same as Angel.

Who needs gypsies when you've got interfering Powers all the fuck over the place?

There's irony for you, he thought. All he'd wanted was for Buffy to be happy.

He didn't know whether to scream or cry. For a long time he leaned against the tree, doing both, no use to himself or the tree. Or to Buffy, smiling with her eyes shut at his feet, all her blood cooling sweetly in her veins.

His stomach pitched.

Maybe he'd have to go vegetarian, learn to eat maple sap. The thought of splinters in his tongue made him gag. It wouldn't be rats for him, though. He'd just have to find some alternative source, something that didn't hurt anyone.

Shit. Oh, how truly he was love's bitch now.

The breeze blew leaves into her hair, barely disturbing it. How could it still glow so, in the dusk? He couldn't leave her there, as he'd intended, to make her death seem an accident, now that he'd sprouted that instant tumor of a soul. He couldn't.

It wouldn't be right.

Bloody hell. He shook his head.

No, It wouldn't be right. Not because he regretted it -- he didn't regret a fucking thing -- but because she deserved better than that.

And because he had a promise to keep, his word of honor, such that it was.

She was still warm enough to feel good as he gathered her in his arms and started back toward town. He could, honestly, say he'd found her like that, but if they asked he'd tell them and take whatever they did to him. Tara would know he'd been changed; she always knew more than the others, and knew it faster. He liked her; he could trust her to take good care of the Little Bit if they spiked him. So would Giles. He could trust the berserker to guard the Princess, if he wasn't still around by morning.

He'd made a promise to a lady, and kept it.

It echoed in his mind, on every step back to town, as he cradled his love in his arms, her head on his shoulder.

"You'll take care of my daughter, won't you, Spike?" Joyce had said, that first evening after cocoa. "I worry about her. You'll see that she gets home all right, won't you?"

"Don't you worry," he'd told her. "I'll always make sure she gets home."

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only story I've ever written completely on a Palm Pilot. It was written on a warm sunny day while sitting in a Kensington cafe, and I have no explanation for it at all.


End file.
